Brother Kemal

by Jakob Arjouni

  ‘Am I crazy?’

  ‘I should think she could drive a man crazy.’

  On Tuesday Octavian called.

  ‘You’ve probably heard or read that your friend Abakay was shot shortly after his release from custody.’

  ‘Saw it on Hessen Nightly.’

  ‘Ah – I didn’t know it was on Hessen Nightly …’

  ‘Would you have wanted to see it too?’

  He sighed. ‘Listen: there was very probably a fight between Abakay and his killer before the fatal shots were fired. There was vomit all over the dead man, and it wasn’t Abakay’s.’

  ‘Oh? How interesting.’

  ‘Well, my colleagues are more or less agreed that Abakay got what was coming to him on account of quarrels of some kind on the drugs scene, and there’s a lot to suggest that they’re right. But out of pure curiosity I asked for a list of the components of the vomit.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ I began to sweat slightly.

  ‘And then I called the wine bar and asked what was the dish of the day last Thursday. It was goat ragout with white beans.’

  I said nothing. There wasn’t anything to say.

  ‘Well, I just wanted to advise you not to attract any attention in the city for a while. Best if my colleagues forget you exist.’

  There was a pause. It cost me an effort, but I said, ‘Thanks, Octavian.’

  When we had hung up, I went into the kitchen and drank a schnapps. On Friday I went to see Edgar Hasselbaink.

  Chapter 16

  It was just after seven in the evening when I rang the bell at the garden gate. Warm yellow light shone from the windows of the de Chavannes villa and a faint aroma of fried onions wafted through the front garden.

  It was a few minutes before the housekeeper, wearing a white apron, opened the front door, took a brief look at me, and then pressed a button that made the garden gate swing open.

  ‘Good evening,’ I wished her once I was inside.

  ‘Good evening,’ she replied without a trace of friendliness. ‘Who shall I say it is?’

  I smiled at her. ‘Nice to see you again. Kayankaya is the name. I was first here two and a half weeks ago and since then there’s been one question I can’t get out of my head.’

  ‘I’m busy cooking supper.’

  ‘As I said, just one question. I’m sure you can remember the day of my visit. It was the Wednesday when Marieke came home.’

  She raised her eyebrows disparagingly. ‘How often do you think she comes home?’

  ‘You mean how often does she go missing?’

  ‘The supper, Herr …’

  ‘Kayankaya. This won’t take long. That morning two and a half weeks ago – why were you so surprised that I was still here when you saw me leaving?’

  She stopped, frowned, looked reluctant to reply. ‘Why would I be surprised?’

  ‘Because you had heard the front door open and close once already. And you thought there was no one in the house but me and Frau de Chavannes …’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember either that morning or you yourself, even if that may seem unlikely to you …’ A slightly malicious smile hovered briefly on her lips. ‘So many people go in and out of this house.’

  ‘You mean it’s not like the old days, when the de Chavannes parents kept a calm, decent household.’

  ‘I don’t mean anything.’

  ‘Fine,’ I concluded. ‘Then would you please tell Herr Hasselbaink that I’d like to see him?’

  At the same moment the living room door opened and Valerie de Chavannes came out into the hall. She stopped in surprise, and you couldn’t describe it any other way: her face was radiant with delight. She cast a quick glance back into the living room, where the TV was on, closed the door and came towards us.

  ‘Herr Kayankaya!’ she said, just loud enough to be heard only in the hall. She was wearing a lightweight, red summer dress that flowed down her firm body, which showed distinctly through the flimsy material. She was barefoot. Without taking her eyes off me she said, ‘That’s all right, Aneta, I’ll look after Herr Kayankaya myself.’

  The housekeeper looked briefly from Valerie de Chavannes to me and back again. ‘Supper’s nearly ready,’ she said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Valerie de Chavannes came close to me, looked into my eyes and said in a low voice, almost a whisper, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, Frau de Chavannes. I’m really here to see your …’

  She laid her fingertips on my mouth and said a quiet, ‘Shh,’ as if soothing a child. Then she took my arm and led me into the front garden.

  ‘Are we going for a walk?’ I asked.

  She didn’t reply, just laughed briefly and quietly. Was she drunk? But she didn’t smell of alcohol. Other drugs?

  In the shadow of a bush, she took my head in both hands, looked deeply into my eyes again and drew my mouth close to her full, dark lips. It was a fervent, moist kiss, as soft as it was determined; I felt the light play of the tip of her tongue, and I had to pull myself together not to attack her.

  When she ended the kiss, her hands slid down my hips and she said, sighing, ‘I knew it. I knew that very first time that you would help me.’

  She said that very formally. I’d once read that upper-class French people, even when they’re married, quite often address each other formally. When I read that I thought it crazy. Kissing, in bed, after making love? Now I realised that the idea appealed to me.

  ‘I’m so grateful to you.’ She let her hands slip a little further down. ‘You’re wonderful. I … if I can ever do anything for you …’

  Anything – good heavens.

  ‘Forgive me, Frau de Chavannes, this is all delightful, but what are you talking about? I brought your daughter home quite a while ago.’

  She looked at me, wide-eyed. ‘About Abakay, of course.’ Her voice was unsteady. ‘You did it for me, didn’t you?’

  It took me a moment to let that remark, with all its implications, sink into my mind, and then I suddenly had to laugh. I listened to myself: a dry, incredulous, harsh laugh. In fact I was afraid. What a twist that would have been: to think that I might be convicted after all of Abakay’s murder in this roundabout way!

  *

  ‘I hope you haven’t mentioned this utterly crazy idea to any of your girlfriends, maybe at the tennis club?’

  ‘What …?’ Her radiant smile, so seductive and promising a moment ago, was gone, and she looked genuinely taken aback. She retreated a step. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean you must be rather lonely to think up something so outlandish.’

  ‘What do you mean, outlandish? I read it in the paper, and after all that there’s been between us …’

  ‘All?’ It was hard to believe, but nothing suggested that she didn’t mean it seriously. ‘We flirted a little, that’s all, Frau de Chavannes.’

  ‘Flirted’, she repeated incredulously.

  ‘Yes, that’s what it’s called. I didn’t want either to marry you or to run off to South America with you.’

  I looked from the bushes to the villa, and the fence between the garden and the road. ‘Is this your secret place for seeing special visitors?’ And when she didn’t answer: ‘Did you meet Abakay here? Arrange to look at photos back at his place?’

  ‘You …! Shut up!’

  I nodded. ‘Okay. If you’ll promise me not to spread any romantic fairy tales about us. Abakay was shot in connection with his drug dealing. You can be glad about that if you like. And now I would like to speak to your husband.’

  She looked irritated. ‘My husband?’ And then, suddenly sounding anxious, ‘What do you want to do that for?’

  ‘A friend of mine has a gallery and would like to meet him.’

  ‘So you came here specially for that?’

  ‘I happened to be in the neighbourhood.’

  She stared at me. All of a sudden she looked very tired, thin and positively unhealthy. She had folded her arms and was standing in
a slightly stooped position, all the tension drained out of her body.

  ‘You needn’t show me in, I can find the way myself. If you’d like to think for a little …’

  She hesitated, and then said contemptuously, ‘Yes, I would like to reflect for a little.’

  I raised my hand in farewell. ‘Good luck, Frau de Chavannes.’

  She didn’t move. She was looking at the ground, as if she were inspecting her pretty bare feet in the grass. Those pretty feet and legs, in fact everything about her … it was a shame. I turned once more at the front door. Valerie de Chavannes was still standing in the shadow of the bushes. A passerby might have taken her for a statue.

  In the hall, I heard the sound of a mixer in the kitchen, and the TV was on at high volume in the living room. I hammered on the living room door with my fist.

  ‘Yes?’

  I went in and saw Edgar Hasselbaink lying on the grey cord sofa that was as big as my living room. He wore a lemon-yellow, close-fitting linen suit, bright blue sneakers, and his curly hair, which was about twenty centimetres long, stood out wildly in all directions. Under the suit jacket his chest was bare, and his dark, muscular, obviously very fit torso was on view. At first sight he looked like a mixture of a crazy professor, hipster and model for summer fashions.

  I imagined Valerie de Chavannes beside him in her thin red dress, and wondered what they were playing at. Saint-Tropez in autumnal Frankfurt? Or did they dress up in the evening just to look sexy for each other? And then did they watch the news together? And eat supper afterwards?

  ‘Good evening, Herr Hasselbaink.’

  ‘Good evening. He turned his head to me, but otherwise stayed comfortably outstretched. He pressed the remote control in his right hand and muted the voice of the news presenter on the TV.’

  I glanced briefly through the door into the hall. ’Where’s your daughter?

  ‘My daughter?’ He slowly sat up. ‘Probably up in her room. Why?’ He spoke with a slight Dutch accent.

  ‘My name is Kayankaya, and I am a private detective.’ I was watching his face closely. ‘We don’t know each other, but perhaps you have seen me before, or at any rate heard of me.’

  Nothing gave away what he was thinking; he just looked irritated. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘May I have a private word with you somewhere we can’t be disturbed?’

  He kept his eyes on me, looking thoughtful and increasingly anxious.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He got up from the sofa and automatically did up one button of his jacket. A bare chest didn’t suit the situation. ‘In my studio.’

  He walked past me and out into the hall. He was a good head taller than me, an impressive figure.

  The studio was in the basement, and there were only two small skylights to let in natural light. Edgar Hasselbaink pressed the light switch, and four white, bright neon tubes came on.

  ‘I always thought that light was all-important for painting,’ I said.

  ‘Well, don’t I have light in here?’

  ‘I meant natural light.’

  ‘It depends what you’re doing. I don’t paint trees in the sunset, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘I think so.’ I looked at the picture standing on an easel in the middle of the room. It was probably what he was working on at present. A sleeping girl against a blue background, presumably Marieke.

  Hasselbaink followed my glance. ‘My daughter. There’s no more beautiful sight in the world than your own child sleeping peacefully.’

  ‘Hmm-hmm.’

  ‘Do you have children?’

  I shook my head. ‘On the other hand, I can imagine few things in the world worse than seeing your own child unable to sleep for fear, don’t you agree?’

  Hasselbaink had propped himself on a table in the corner and started rolling a cigarette. ‘Yes, I do.’ He rolled up the paper. ‘And now? What do you want?’

  ‘Your wife mentioned that you studied medicine in Amsterdam before you began your career as an artist.’

  He stopped rolling the cigarette and looked up. ‘Yes, for two years. Because my parents insisted on it. Why?’

  ‘It must take a certain knowledge of human anatomy to be able to stick a shashlik skewer into a man’s chest so that it passes between the ribs and into the heart. The study of medicine is one way of acquiring such knowledge.’

  Hasselbaink looked at me, his mouth slightly open, the almost-finished cigarette between his fingers. He looked very calm, thoughtful rather than surprised. Finally he lowered his eyes, licked the paper and finished rolling the cigarette. With a grave, concentrated expression, eyes on the floor, he searched the pockets of his suit for a lighter. He finally found one in the outside pocket of his jacket, lit the cigarette and thoughtfully blew the smoke in a thin curl towards the ceiling.

  ‘Of course I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said in a relaxed tone, almost as if he were amusing himself a little, at my expense, ‘but do by all means go on.’

  ‘I picture it like this …’ I put my hands in my trouser pockets and began strolling round the studio. I kept stopping in front of the picture of the sleeping Marieke. It did indeed give off an aura of deep peace.

  ‘You were in The Hague and, as usual when you are travelling or staying somewhere abroad, you rang home every evening to say good night, “I love you”, and so on. After your wife told you several evenings running that Marieke wasn’t there at the minute, was with a friend, at a Greenpeace meeting or whatever, after a while you began wondering what it was all about. And I imagine that the concern your wife couldn’t quite keep out of her voice reinforced your fears. At some point you decided to go to Frankfurt in secret and see what was going on.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I trust my wife?’ he suddenly asked. ‘Why would I travel in secret?’ His tone of voice was entirely neutral, as if his interest in the whole thing was of a purely theoretical nature.

  ‘Your wife was my client. In case you haven’t worked it all out yet, I was the one who brought your daughter home. And at least – I don’t want to offend you or your family: your wife would certainly arouse many reactions in people, but I doubt whether unconditional trust is among them.’

  His upper lips twisted slightly into a smile that I found hard to interpret. Was it angry? Bitter? Amused? Or after at least sixteen years of living with her, simply tired?

  ‘I assume there’s a night train from The Hague or Amsterdam to Frankfurt, or else you came by car?’

  He did not reply, just smoked and looked at me.

  ‘Well, so once you were here you slipped into the house, probably while I was sitting with your wife in the living room. I don’t know how all the rooms and back entrances connect up, but you must have had some way of listening to what we were saying. And then you heard Abakay’s name and address, and you set out to save your daughter.’

  I stopped in front of him. He looked at me inquiringly.

  ‘May I roll myself a cigarette too?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ He offered me the pouch of tobacco.

  I sat down on a chair covered with dried splotches of paint and helped myself to a suitable amount of tobacco.

  ‘And I assume you rang Abakay’s doorbell, but no one opened the door. Then you sat waiting in the café beside the door to the apartment building. And you ordered the dish of the day, not because you were hungry, but because by then it had occurred to you that if you were visiting someone like Abakay it would be as well to have a weapon with you.’

  I licked the cigarette paper, rolled up the cigarette, and tore off the tobacco fibres hanging out of the ends.

  ‘The waiter remembers you.’

  I thought briefly of the young white man with frizzy hair who couldn’t imagine a black man with racist feelings strong enough to make him attack his Turkish neighbour. Okay, yes, there was a skewer missing at lunchtime, but I can’t imagine it was your racist neighbour who nicked it. And who hadn’t dared to mention a black man’s skin colour. Pro
bably because he was afraid of bowing to racist clichés. Better not mention skin colour at all. Maybe it was the unconscious anger of many good, tolerant white people: Why the hell are we always being made to beat about the bush like this? Why can’t you all be white like everyone else, and then there’d be no problem with the damn description?

  ‘A light?’ asked Hasselbaink, offering me his lighter.

  ‘Thanks, not yet.’ I was holding the cigarette between thumb and forefinger as I used to when I still smoked, and examined it for a moment in silence. ‘And then you rang Abakay’s bell again, and this time someone opened the door. But it was the wrong man standing in the doorway. A large, fat, bare-chested drunk, and maybe Marieke was even shouting for help in the background.’

  I paused. For a moment the only sound was the crackle of Hasselbaink’s burning tobacco.

  ‘No, I don’t have any children, but I can well imagine that in such a situation they are all that matters. Perhaps at first all you wanted was to get into the apartment, and Rönnthaler was in your way. Or perhaps you stabbed him at once, because the circumstances were only too clear.’

  Once again I paused, and looked at the lighter in Hasselbaink’s hand. This time he didn’t offer it, and I didn’t want to ask.

  ‘And then you heard me coming upstairs. Well, and so – you might say – Abakay survived.’

  ‘But not for very long,’ retorted Hasselbaink, surprisingly fast.

  I cleared my throat. ‘No, but that’s another story. He was shot in connection with his drug dealing.’

  ‘My wife tells the story rather differently.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘Listen,’ said Hasselbaink, putting out the remains of his cigarette in the lid of a paint pot that was lying around. ‘Your story, so far as the end of it goes, is pure nonsense. I didn’t kill anyone, I never sat outside Abakay’s apartment, and I’d like to see the white waiter who can prove convincingly that he served one coloured man rather than another in all the hustle and bustle of a café at midday …’

  He smiled at me, relaxed. I thought of the waiter’s description of Hasselbaink. Age … sort of around fifty, comfortable clothes – like a professor or a nice teacher. I was sure that Hasselbaink didn’t usually go around in a bright yellow suit and no shirt. And if he got his hair under control, maybe wore a pair of reading glasses …